


Battle Dress

by Kryptaria



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, BDSM, Breathplay, But not bloodplay, Dog Tags, Dom!John, If You Were verse, Knifeplay, M/M, Military Uniforms, Silk scarf, Subspace, Tuxedo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-29
Updated: 2012-07-03
Packaged: 2017-11-08 19:43:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/446816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/Kryptaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not a date. And even if it was, Jim wouldn't want John to carry a machine gun. Would he?</p><p>Apparently he would.</p><p>But it's not a date.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Eryn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eryn/gifts).



> As always with these outtakes, this is not beta-ed, proofread, edited, or approved by The_Kinky_Pet. There may be spoilers for the If You Were... 'verse stories, or this may not be compatible.
> 
> Enjoy!

John let himself into Jim’s flat, calling, “Jim!” before he’d even gotten the key out of the lock. (He had a key, but they weren’t dating. They were friends and they were sleeping together and did mind-blowing scenes together, but they _weren’t dating._ )

“Up here!” Jim called from the bedroom loft.

John threw his jacket over one of the stools by the breakfast bar and hurried up the stairs as fast as he could with his cane. Jim had called just about forty minutes earlier, pleading with John to see him tonight, to save him from a social engagement. With nothing else to do, no leads to follow-up, John had been more than willing to agree. Anything was better than another night staring at a blank blog entry page and eating reheated takeaway.

The bed was neatly made, white duvet glowing in the light spilling through the open bathroom door. John turned to look into the bathroom, wondering if Jim’s ‘emergency’ had something to do with him being naked and lonely, looking for company in the shower, when he spotted the machine gun.

He stopped, his eyes fixed on the matte black weapon, taking in the details. _H &K M27 IAR,_ he identified, having seen them in the hands of US Marines at Camp Dwyer in the Helmand River Valley. No magazine, rear sight flipped down, stock adjusted to minimum length for transport.

The machine gun wasn’t alone, though it took John a good ten seconds to notice the pile of night-black kit behind it. Battle dress uniform, matte black boots, black body armor, not a bit of metal in sight.

“Did you call me here to _shoot_ someone?” John asked mildly, stepping closer. The M27 looked real. Brand new, still gleaming with a light coat of oil. _Real_.

“Only if you really hate the dinner. It’s sort of a last-minute invitation,” Jim said as he emerged from the bathroom. “Don’t hate me?”

“Why don’t you — _Oh,_ ” he interrupted himself very quietly, taking in Jim’s tuxedo. Black tailcoat, trousers with satin stripes down the legs, and shoes; white shirt, waistcoat, and tie. It looked to have been fitted to his skin, and John would bet a week’s pay it had never seen the inside of a rental shop.

Jim’s smile tried for shy but fell short, as if he knew how damned good he looked. “It’s white tie or fancy dress, and I didn’t have your measurements for a tux, so this is the next best thing,” he said, gesturing to the pile. “If that’s okay. I mean, if not, we don’t have to go. Or you don’t — I can go alone. It doesn’t have to be a date. You’d just be doing me a really big —”

“Jim,” he interrupted, trying not to laugh. Jim could be so composed and self-assured one moment, and so charmingly uncertain the next. Shaking his head, John went to pick up the gun, leaning his cane on his hip. He racked the bolt back, verifying it was unloaded, and ran his hands along the surface. He’d carried an SA80, not an M27, but the feel was familiar enough that the last year fell away from his memory. The smell of oil seemed to carry the fragrance of sun-scorched earth and sweat and the slightly bitter tang of the desert.

“Fancy dress,” John said, snugging the weapon against his side instinctively as he looked back at Jim. He was fussing nervously with his cufflinks, darting little glances at John while mostly staring down at his polished shoes.

“If it’s all right. I don’t want to pressure you into doing anything. It’s just, these are people I know, and I’d really prefer not to go alone.”

“It’s fine,” John answered, looking down at the gun. He should have felt absurd, thinking about dressing up in another country’s uniform while Jim looked elegant and gorgeous and untouchable in his tuxedo, but really, he was just grateful that Jim hadn’t asked him to wear one, too.

 

~~~

 

Downstairs, Jim pulled a double-shot of espresso and debated adding a splash of whisky but refrained. John was fine with this. Jim had caught him off-guard, but he really was okay with it.

Thank God Jim had gotten his hands on the uniform — the M27, especially. He hadn’t missed the way John’s eyes had lit up as he realized it was the genuine article and not a replica. But would he care that it was illegal? Would he carry it loaded? Jim had made certain to include ammo — that extra touch of authenticity and all — but he wasn’t sure.

That was new. He could predict _anything,_ if not through his skills of observation then through math. By now, he had analyzed John’s personality to the _nth_ degree, and he still couldn’t predict the man. It was frustrating and fascinating all at once.

Jim stuck with straight espresso, closing his eyes as he drank, tasting the complexity of the roast under the scorching heat that was almost enough to burn his tongue, right on the edge of too much and just right. No one would be surprised by him showing up with another man — not one like his soldier, anyway. They’d all have their bodyguards, openly and hidden. Would John realize it? Would he pick up on the nuances of behavior? He was so sensitive to rank, surely he’d know.

No, not rank. Status. _Power_. It rolled off John in waves. Little ripples when he was calm and mild, dressed in his soft shirts and warm jumpers and jeans faded in all the right places. But he could wield that power like a storm, a force of nature that one could never control, never _cruel_ but felt in every possible way.

Some of them would sense it, tonight. They’d see that unbowed spine, the confident set of his shoulders, the sharp eyes that were so dark and blue and compelling. They’d feel it in their bones, the challenge of established alpha wolves against an interloper in their territory. John would feel it, but he wouldn’t understand, would he?

That didn’t matter. He would _protect_ Jim, or he’d convince himself that was what he was doing. He’d stand at Jim’s side and snarl at anyone who seemed a threat, but he’d never demand Jim’s submission — not out there, in public — even in the most subtle ways. He’d stand at Jim’s side, and neither of them would be wearing a collar or holding a leash, and the others would see that as a mark of Jim’s power, that he had earned the loyalty of such a strong, capable man.

 _Perfect,_ Jim thought, and turned as he heard John’s footsteps on the stairs.

 

~~~

 

It wasn’t _his_ uniform. It was black, not desert camo, and the subtleties were all wrong, but God, it felt so _right_. He wasn’t a hundred percent on the subtle details — any real Marine would know he was an impostor — but he had the basics. With every layer he put on, he could feel the months fall away.

There was no way this was legal. As John thumbed 5.56 NATO cartridges into the magazine, he catalogued the violations: impersonating foreign military, carrying a bladed instrument without lawful explanation, carrying an _automatic rifle_. God, this was insane, and there was no good reason for him to shiver at the solid _click_ as he slapped the magazine in place.

He pulled back the bolt, chambering the first round, and his mouth went dry.

Jim had to have a reason for this. Something he wasn’t telling John. Not that John didn’t have his suspicions, of course. Jim had mentioned his investments, and that the loft was paid off rather than mortgaged. Everything about him, from his clothes to the furniture, spoke of quality, even luxury. He was about as far from the hourly-paid café-worker as it was possible to get, though inside, he was still the same shy, sweetly submissive Jim who had first caught John’s eye.

 _These are people I know, and I’d rather not go alone,_ Jim had said. He was worried.

John was a dominant, and Jim had subbed for him, but this facet of Jim’s need tugged at a different part of John. He was a soldier, meant to protect others. Maybe under other circumstances, John wouldn’t have let Jim go out like this at all, if there was a risk, but that wasn’t his place. Their BDSM games had strict starting and stopping points, though that was more by John’s choice than Jim’s. Somewhere inside, John knew that if he pushed, Jim would give John even more of himself. He’d exclusively be John’s, without demanding John’s exclusivity in turn. He’d belong to John day and night. He’d surrender himself completely.

Neither of them was actually ready for that, though, and John couldn’t push his primary mission out of his mind. The look in Sherlock’s eyes had added a whole new set of nightmares to John’s mind. He had to reconcile that — to lay to rest that haunted look and bare his own throat in apology — before he could think of letting his life take a new path.

He left his cane upstairs, feeling steadier on his feet than he had in months. One hand gripped the staircase handrail; the other cradled the M27 to his side. By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, he felt almost light on his feet. His senses heightened to preternatural levels as the world came alive for him.

“God,” Jim breathed, his brown eyes gone very dark and _hot_ as he slowly put down one of those little mugs he used for drinking espresso. John had never asked what they were called, and really didn’t care.

“One day,” John said, walking toward the kitchen, “you’re going to explain this. Understand?”

“One day,” Jim repeated softly, and it had the weight of a promise.

Then he was in John’s arms, M27 trapped between their bodies as his hands cupped the back of John’s neck, licking his way fiercely into John’s mouth. John let go of the M27 stock to catch Jim by the hips and pull hard against the body armor. Jim’s gasp was lost in John’s mouth; Jim’s fingers scratched hard at John’s scalp.

John ended the kiss with a hard bite to Jim’s lower lip and then pushed him back, knowing that if they didn’t get some distance between them, they’d never make it to this social engagement of Jim’s.

“If you were wearing anything else, I’d cut it off you and have you over this counter,” John said, and that was _definitely_ a promise.

“Tonight,” Jim said, licking his lips. “After. Anything you want.”

“Fuck yes,” John agreed.

 

~~~

 

The SUV was idling downstairs in the building’s private garage to keep them out of the weather and out of sight. Jim had already arranged to block the CCTV feed from the garage cameras, but there was no need to alert the authorities to his ability to tamper with systems on the street. The driver worked for him directly, and was already in place to open the side door for them, allowing them to get right into the back without waiting.

There was only one bench seat, set well behind the smoked glass partition between the passenger and driver compartments. John followed Jim inside, unslinging the rifle and looking around for somewhere to put it. “There’s a cargo net in back,” Jim offered, settling into the plush upholstered seat.

John gave a good-natured snort and dropped the stock between his feet, twisting the sling around his left arm. He braced the rifle along the inside of his calf, keeping the muzzle angled to the left, away from Jim.

“If there’s anything I need to know, now’s the time to tell me, Jim,” he said seriously as the driver closed the door. The dome light faded gently, easing them into darkness.

Jim glanced at the control panel behind the front passenger seat. The heater was on, stereo off, cabin intercom off. He licked his lips and turned back to John, saying, “Have you ever heard of emerging markets?”

John arched a brow.

“Right, sorry.” Jim toyed with the tassels on the white silk scarf, turned a muted grey by the darkness, tucked under the lapels of his overcoat. “Emerging market funds invest in third world countries — usually technology. In Kenya, they use mobile phone accounts to pay for everything, instead of credit cards or cash.”

“Sierra Leone,” John said quietly.

Jim knew what he was talking about, but John didn’t know that Jim knew. “That’s one of them,” he agreed. “There are a lot of opportunities, and just a little foreign money goes a long way, but... well, it’s not always safe. Sometimes, you have to make a deal with the devil to get things done.”

John blew out a breath and nodded, his gaze distant and focused not on Jim but on whatever memories were playing through his mind. He rubbed a hand across his jaw and nodded. “Right.”

“We _should_ be — I mean, it’s a party, not a war, but... you never know. There have been a couple of incidents before. And anyone with the money to invest is a good hostage —”

“I’ve done hostage rescue,” John said tightly.

 _Fuck,_ Jim thought anxiously, wondering if he’d pushed John too far, too fast. But this unexpected invitation had been too perfect an opportunity to pass up.

“Nothing should happen tonight,” Jim said soothingly.

“But you planned this.” They were out of the garage and on the streets now. Passing headlights shined in through the tinted windows just enough to send a faint glow playing across John’s face as he turned towards Jim. “This is all my size, Jim, right down to the boots. And this” — he slapped a hand against the M27 — “you don’t get this at a costume shop.”

Jim turned away, taking a breath, his mind racing. There was no way he could have planned for this conversation because it could have gone so many ways. Instead of being ten steps ahead of John, he was half a step out of reach, and John was quickly gaining ground. He was so damned _unpredictable_.

“The rifle, yes,” Jim said softly. “It — I mean, _I_ don’t want to carry it, but after what happened at my old job, I hired a personal protection expert for a little while. Just for advice. He got that for me, and some others. How did he put it?” he mused, looking up at the roof of the SUV. “Better to get arrested for shooting someone trying to kill me than end up dead because I was afraid of breaking the law.”

John was silent for a few seconds. Jim snuck a glance, but he couldn’t read John’s expression. Then John asked, “And the uniform?”

Jim didn’t have to turn away to hide a pretend blush. All it took was thinking of what John had said back in the kitchen and the blush was there, very real. “Look at you,” he said, hearing the raw desire in his voice. “God, I called in a couple of favors after that first night, hoping that... you know.”

To his surprise — his _delight_ — John laughed. It was low and rough and heavy with tension, but it was a laugh all the same. “It feels good, even if it _is_ for the wrong country.”

With a relieved sigh, Jim reached into the inside pocket of his overcoat. When he pulled his hand back, it was with a distinctive click of metal that caught John’s attention. “Then... this is for you, too,” he said softly, letting a beaded silver chain dangle between his fingers.

John reached for the circular dog tags hanging at the bottom of the chain. One was on a short, detachable loop hanging beside the other. He rubbed one of the tags between his thumb and forefinger, feeling the imprint of his name: WATSON JH.

“These are heavier than stainless steel. Silver?” John asked quietly.

“If that’s all right. I mean, if you like them —”

“Jim.” John was looking at the dog tags, not at Jim. Finally, he slipped the chain over his head and worked the tags down under his body armor and layered shirts. He took a deep breath and turned, freeing his left hand from the rifle sling so he could reach for Jim with both hands.

Relieved that this had gone well (so far, at least), Jim let himself be pulled into a kiss that was hard and demanding but not angry. “It’s all right,” John murmured against his lips, holding Jim by the collar of his overcoat. “Whatever happens tonight, it’ll be fine. The only one who’s going to hurt you tonight is me. Understand?”

Satisfaction and lust and the heady, addictive sense of _victory_ all swirled through Jim, making his skin tingle. “Absolutely,” he breathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **References:**
> 
> The M27: http://marinesmagazine.dodlive.mil/2012/05/16/m27-iar/  
> Guide to tuxedos - specifically, white tie and accessories: http://www.blacktieguide.com/White_Tie/White_Tie_Intro.htm


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Between John in a uniform, armed and dangerous, and Jim in white tie, it's a wonder they even made it four hours before one of them demanded to leave the party.

They lasted just under four hours.

At first, John had felt ridiculous, even naked and exposed, carrying a damned machine gun into a stately home in Knightsbridge, of all places. It felt like every eye in the place was on him — like they all knew he didn’t belong here — and he half-expected to be asked to leave, either by the servants or by the police. But then he’d noticed others like him: a man whose tuxedo jacket looked tailored to conceal a shoulder holster; a woman dressed as a medieval highwayman, carrying a very modern compound crossbow; a couple in matched red hunting jackets and riding jodhpurs, both carrying rifles.

So he stopped feeling self-conscious and let himself enjoy the atmosphere and the company, even if he never did quite relax. Jim was at his charming best, telling John stories of his gap year adventures when he did the whole backpacking thing, travelling from Europe to Egypt and along the old Silk Road. When others approached, Jim introduced John as ‘my captain’ to strings of people whose names John promptly forget.

Thank God John didn’t see a single one of his clients. That would have been too much for him to bear.

Somehow, he wasn’t surprised to find that Jim had a gift with languages. John recognized none of them except for French and Russian, neither of which he actually understood; languages weren’t one of John’s talents. Like any good soldier, he tended to learn a few useful local phrases (mostly profanity) but he’d never stayed anywhere long enough to pick up anything more.

The servants were circling with offerings of dessert wines and little things that were like hors d’oeuvres but were sweet, sort of mini-desserts — again, John felt just a bit out of his element, because this wasn’t his world, and he lacked the vocabulary to smoothly navigate its paths. He chose something that looked fairly harmless, plucked a pair of leaves out of the top, and bit it in half. Mint, chocolate, and a spice he remembered from the desert — cardamom? Something like that. It was an odd combination, but appealing.

Then he felt Jim’s hand coiling around his, lifting, followed by the brush of hot lips over his fingertips, stealing the leaves away. “I love mint,” Jim said, his head still slightly bowed, looking up at John through his lashes.

All night, they’d circled through the crowd, connected by a thread of interest that hummed in the background. But Jim had been focused on chatting up his contacts and rivals, and John had spent his time looking for threats. Now, the connection between them snapped and sparked, electric and complete and scorching hot.

“We’re leaving,” John said abruptly, dropping the half-dessert-thing on the nearest tray and heading for the exit, his boots heavy on the hardwood floor, M27 cradled against his body like a lover.

In the foyer, they paused as the servants in attendance went off to get Jim’s coat and order the car round. John leaned against the wall and stared at Jim, watching him chew the sprig of whatever-it-was. With every third or fourth bite, Jim licked his lips as though savoring the taste.

The servant finally returned to help Jim into his coat. Jim murmured his thanks and took a pair of matte white gloves — chamois, he guessed — out of the coat pocket. John watched Jim put them on, remembering black leather gloves and long, pale fingers. He closed his eyes and turned away, taking a deep breath. The scent of gun oil teased at his nostrils, buried somewhere under the floor polish and cologne and the lingering trace of dinner, bringing him back to a time when life had been simpler. More dangerous, yes, but somehow _better_.

“John?”

The soft interruption pulled him back. Jim was just inches away, watching him with concern.

“Sorry. Miles away,” John apologized, his eyes dropping from Jim’s face to his body. The tuxedo was still captivating; four hours gone, and John still wasn’t used to it. He allowed himself to think of stripping off every piece of Jim’s complicated, layered outfit, slowly and carefully, and he felt his mood lift again.

“You don’t have to come back with me, if you’d rather not,” Jim said uncertainly.

Without answering, he started for the door in silence, giving a little nod to the servant who held it open for them. Jim followed John out to the huge porch, down the stairs, and to the SUV that was already waiting for them. It was disturbing just how efficient these servants were.

As soon as they were in the SUV, John stowed the rifle between his boots, caught hold of Jim’s scarf, and pulled him close. His kiss tasted like sweet, icy mint. Jim’s fingers scratched at the canvas covering of John’s body armor, catching on the velcro straps.

There was too much for John to think about — too many subtle little things that had been _wrong_ about the night. Some part of him felt like he was in a transport chopper coming back from an op that had gone off without a hitch.

 _Later,_ he told himself, knowing that he’d think more clearly once his subconscious had time to process.

He nipped at Jim’s bottom lip and eased his hands up the scarf, freeing it from the lapels of his overcoat. The silk was incredibly soft against John’s calloused skin, glowing white in the darkness of the SUV. He slipped the scarf around the nape of Jim’s neck and pulled, whispering, “Safeword, Jim?”

Jim shuddered, flattening his hands against John’s body armor. “Pascal,” he breathed, tension draining from his body as he shifted closer.

John slid his right hand down to catch both ends of the scarf. His left hand slid up, until his fist pressed lightly against Jim’s skin, the white silk a gleaming band around his throat. John rarely played with collars — too many people had too many interpretations of what they did or didn’t mean — but this was what he wanted, at least tonight. And while it was new, something they’d never done before, it wasn’t one of Jim’s hard limits.

“What can I do to you?”

He tightened his right fist and pulled down. Silk slid through his left fist, tightening around Jim’s throat, dragging out a short, startled moan. Jim made no effort to struggle; the safeword remained locked in silence. There was a measure of trust between them, at least in this.

“Anything. Fuck, anything you want.”

 

~~~

 

John turned Jim and shoved his back against the door to close it. He kept hold of the scarf with one hand, reaching out to throw the deadbolt with the other, saying, “Don’t move. Don’t do _anything_. Understand?”

Jim all but purred, “Yes. _Fuck,_ yes.”

A part of John’s mind considered correcting that to ‘yes, sir’, but right now, he didn’t give a damn. Jim’s awareness was already slipping down into his own body, the rest of the world falling away. Tonight, John didn’t need any tricks or toys to find new cracks in Jim’s armor.

He slung the rifle behind his back and slid his hands under Jim’s overcoat, pressing his palms flat into the hollows of his shoulders. He moved his hands up, feeling the contours of Jim’s body hidden under the layers of his tuxedo, and stripped the first layer off slowly, pushing the overcoat up and over his shoulders.

The coat fell an inch before Jim’s body trapped it against the door. John pressed the length of his body against Jim’s, remembering how it felt to be on the other side of body armor, planes and edges pressing in the wrong places, scratching at his awareness. He couldn’t imagine Jim had ever even worn body armor, much less felt it like this; his body had to be coming alive under the new sensation.

“Do you have a signal?” John asked. “If you can’t speak your safeword?”

Jim’s breath hitched and caught. His head fell back against the door as he stared at John, eyes gone black and dazed. He nodded, hesitated a moment, and then snapped his fingers.

“Good.” John rewarded him with another kiss, guiding him forward by the shoulders enough to push the coat down over his arms. He let it fall, hands skimming down Jim’s arms in the wake of the overcoat sleeves, and caught hold of Jim’s wrists. “I’m not going to tie you, but you’re going to be perfect for me anyway.”

Jim hissed in a breath. Being bound was easier for him, but he responded so beautifully to having his self-control tested. “Make me fail,” he challenged, meeting John’s gaze.

 _Push or play?_ John thought, studying the way Jim’s body was screaming for more, cheeks flushed, lips parted.

He thought of Sherlock, then — their first and only time together — and while it ripped open the wounds inside that refused to heal, he realized that there was something about Jim that reminded him of Sherlock, as if they both lived in some higher intellectual world than most other people. John would never be like them, but he had other strengths; he was comfortable with himself.

But if he couldn’t follow Jim’s thoughts, he’d have to pull him out of his mind altogether — make him forget how to _think_ and then remake him into a purely physical creature.

So he let the challenge appear to go unnoticed. “Go stand on the rug, facing the window. Do _nothing_ else.”

Jim’s lips curved up into a smirk as if he knew what John had planned. Maybe he did, but probably not. Every other scene of theirs had been meticulously planned, but not this one. This was John flying blind, his path shaped by his knowledge of Jim’s body and mind, fuelled by the raw desire to strip Jim bare and own him completely, every breath and pulse of blood and thought.

He went upstairs, one hand dropped low to steady the rifle slung across his back. He went to the nightstand and pulled the drawer open, idly considering how quickly he’d become comfortable here, at Jim’s loft. They weren’t dating, but he had a toothbrush in the bathroom and he knew where Jim kept his toys.

As he looked around, his eye fell on the cane he’d left leaning against the wall by the bathroom. His right hand rubbed over his hip. The spare magazine rattled in his thigh pocket. He stared at the cane, feeling his weight comfortably distributed on both feet, the strength in his legs. His balance was perfect.

 _Psychosomatic,_ he thought. Doctors had been telling him that since he’d been freed from traction and collapsed on the way to see the physical therapists. Dr. Thompson had tried to convince him to go without the cane, but he’d barely managed a half hour before he’d fallen on his face.

John hooked his left hand around the rifle strap across his chest as though drawing strength from it. “Fuck,” he whispered, not sure he could deal with this right now. This went beyond bad timing.

He closed his eyes, took a breath, and pushed it aside. He’d learned to focus on the mission at all costs. And right now, he wanted to own every thought in Jim’s head.

Back on track, he took the condoms and lubricant. He shoved both into his left thigh pocket, a strange counterpoint to the weight of the ammo magazine on the other side.

When he went back downstairs, he left the cane where it was.

 

~~~

 

Jim was looking out the window, one hand stuffed in the pocket of his trousers, the other pinching the lapel of his tailcoat, sliding his fingers back and forth over the fine, stiff material. He lifted his head and watched John’s reflection draw closer. The scarf draped over his shoulders was thin, no more than six inches wide, with a short, neat fringe along both ends. Thank God it was white and soft as silk — probably real silk, knowing Jim — and not thick blue cashmere.

John walked right behind him, sliding his hands up Jim’s arms. The tailcoat was sculpted to define the lines of Jim’s body, the wool stiff and perfectly curved over his shoulders. John bent his head to the back of Jim’s neck and breathed in the heat of his body, drawing his hands together, fingers gathering up the white silk.

The white silk was a mist-fine barrier over his rough fingertips as he skimmed his hands along Jim’s throat and down the lines of his jaw. Jim’s head fell back, resting against the padded shoulder strap of John’s body armor. The nape of Jim’s neck pressed into the leather-sheathed point of the knife strapped over John’s heart.

John moved his right hand to curve over Jim’s throat, fingers tracing the complex shapes trapped under his skin. In the back of his head, he heard the rote repetition of his anatomy lessons. He snugged his silk-covered hand up under Jim’s jaw, finger and thumb pressing lightly against the pulse points.

He felt Jim’s hands, still gloved, press against his legs, sliding up toward his hips. “Don’t,” John growled in warning, pressing his hand sharply up.

Jim hissed in a breath and let his hands fall. “You have no idea how good you look. How _right_ you look.”

The words shivered over John’s skin like the touch he’d forbidden. He thought about the cane upstairs and the strength in his body and crossed the ends of the scarf in front of Jim’s throat. “You could’ve asked me to bring my dress uniform,” he pointed out, hands never stopping, drawing the ends of the scarf to hang down Jim’s back.

“This is better,” Jim said, his burning eyes locking to John’s reflection.

It was his choice. There was an edge about Jim that was almost covetous, as if by asking John to accept the uniform of another country, he could take John’s soldier-self and make it _his_.

One more entry on the list of things to think about tomorrow.

“And this?” John asked, circling Jim’s body with his arms, folding his hands over the lapels of Jim’s tailcoat. It was short in front, ending at the waist, and swept down into tails in back. He pulled the lapels aside, exposing his blinding white waistcoat and shirt.

Jim’s hands came up, locking around John’s wrists, the touch of suede on his sensitive skin short-circuiting his thoughts. Jim had _never_ touched him like that, and suddenly it felt to John like he’d grabbed hold of the wrong end of a cobra.

“Jim,” he warned steadily.

Jim never looked away from John’s reflection. “You wanted to cut it off me.”

If John had read a challenge in the touch of Jim’s gloved hands, it was gone now, replaced by one single desire: _Yes._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For two hundred years, men have worn tuxedos as armor when venturing out onto the battlefield of high society. Jim Moriarty's choice of white tie is no different.
> 
> John Watson will teach him that a determined soldier with a knife can tear through that armor, exposing what hides underneath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Mitaya for an as-I-wrote-it beta. Google docs - it's like magic for fanfic writers!

Jim twitched when John unsnapped the strap holding the knife in its sheath. The hilt dropped into John’s hand, solid and comfortable. He stared at the pristine black wool, thinking madly that the tux had to have cost _thousands_ of pounds — far more than the tailored suits he’d bought with Kate’s help — and he was going to _shred_ it off Jim’s body.

“Move up,” he said, surprised at how low and steady his voice was. He walked with Jim until they were a foot away from the window.

“You enjoy this window, don’t you?” Jim asked, turning just enough to show John his profile.

John’s answer was a low, quiet laugh. “Hands on the glass,” he ordered, running his right hand up Jim’s side, feeling the seam of his tailcoat and the layers underneath.

“When the weather changes, I want to do this on the balcony,” Jim said, letting his head fall back as he arched his back.

God, he really was an exhibitionist. John didn’t let himself think about it, though. The image was gorgeous to imagine, but it was still a cold, wet spring. It would be a month or two before the weather would be warm enough for that sort of thing.

This _thing_ with Jim wasn’t a relationship. It was an extended series of scenes and one-night stands. It could end tomorrow, and John was _fine_ with that. He had to be. He needed to maintain his distance, to keep focused on identifying and neutralizing his enemy. And then... then he needed to at least _try_ to apologize to Sherlock.

“Fuck,” John muttered, closing his eyes. “Jim...”

Jim turned, gently catching John’s left wrist and pushing his hand — and the knife — to the side. He rested his free hand on John’s hip. “Too much?”

“No. God, no,” John laughed, shaking his head, though he didn’t know how to explain.

Jim tugged gently on John’s wrist, and John obligingly moved forward. “If you want to just relax, I can take over,” Jim offered.

Wrong-footed, John blankly asked, “Take over?”

“Fooled you, did I?” Jim asked smugly. “Though I suppose that’s your fault. You are a very, _very_ good dom. But if you want to switch roles for the night, we can.”

“No.” John was proud he managed to keep it from being too sharp. He’d subbed exactly twice and spent the whole time wanting to tear his way out of his own skin. “That’s... not my thing. Sorry.”

“Oh, right. Because it’s been _awful_ for me this whole time,” he drawled.

John laughed, the tight bands of anxiety loosening from around his chest. “Do you still want to do this?” he asked, glad to find he was still interested. Of course, just looking at Jim in that tux, white scarf wound around his throat, pressed close against John’s body armor and black battle dress, he’d have to be dead not to be interested.

Jim let out a pensive, “Hmm...” He tipped his head to the side, eyes falling closed, stretching his neck. “Well, I suppose,” he finally said, his knife-sharp smile reappearing.

Careful of the blade, John caught hold of Jim’s wrist, twisted it free from his knife-hand, and pulled, spinning Jim around and off-balance. One shove between Jim’s shoulderblades and he hit the window with a startled gasp. His gloved hands slapped against the glass.

John caught the ends of the scarf and pulled hard enough to get Jim’s attention. John’s distraction had almost ruined this; it was up to him to reestablish their roles and get Jim focused again.

“Then stay where I put you,” he said, letting his voice drop half an octave. He tugged hard, though he was careful not to actually hurt Jim, and earned a gasp in response.

John dragged his fist down the ends of the scarf, keeping up a steady pressure until the fringe passed between his fingers. Then he moved a step to the left, flattening his hand on Jim’s tailcoat, running his palm down the seam under his arm. He caught hold of the hem and pulled the fabric tight from Jim’s waist to his shoulder.

“Don’t move,” he warned very quietly, and stabbed the knife abruptly into the fabric, careful to keep the blade parallel to Jim’s side, edge angled slightly away.

Jim couldn’t help but flinch at the sound of tearing fabric. The blade was sharp; the point pierced into the layers of fabric and lining and emerged an inch away, trapping a fold of now-ruined wool.

John twisted the blade a bit more and pressed the blunt end against Jim’s shirt, high up under his arm. Jim flinched again, and then laughed, nervously and quietly.

Cutting fabric with a knife wasn’t easy, especially not multiple layers. With his right hand, John kept tension on the coat as he pushed the blade down with his left, strongly enough that Jim’s shoulder buckled before he braced against the pull.

The rip sounded like hard rain on thin glass, deafening in the quiet loft. John pulled his right hand back at the last second, allowing the momentum of his left to carry the blade all the way to the hem. The stitching was strong there, but he expected that, and he angled the blade to slice through as he pulled the blade down and away.

The tailcoat gaped open, showing the shirt and waistcoat in a pale white triangle. Keeping the knife-edge away from Jim, John ran the back of his knuckles, wrapped around the hilt, down over the white fabric. It was pristine, untouched by the blade, and he felt a little smile cross his lips — not a grin, but the smile that came only when he was _here,_ comfortably in control, taking his partner apart. He would’ve been amazed at how smoothly he slipped back into his role, but it was so _easy_ with Jim. Switch or not, the man was a natural sub.

John took another step to the left and pinched the tailcoat’s cuff tight over Jim’s wrist. He set the point against the fabric above his fingers and twisted, drilling the blade in, piercing through all the layers and back out again. With a twist of the wrist, John yanked the blade up and out, tearing a hole an inch across. He hooked the fingers of his right hand in that hole, set the blade to the upper edge, and started cutting up towards Jim’s shoulder.

The sleeve was fitted snugly enough that the back of the blade pressed against Jim’s arm. John felt his muscles go tense as he inhaled, fighting the compulsion to move away. He finished the cut at Jim’s shoulder, coming back to the cuff to negligently slice through. The tailcoat sleeve fell open, exposing more white fabric and a thin sliver of skin between the shirt cuff and the gloves Jim still wore.

John kept cutting, slicing the back of the coat down from the lapel all the way to the tails, opening the right sleeve as he had the left, never cutting enough for the coat to fall free. Jim’s breathing turned steady, his eyes closed, hands relaxed against the glass. His body was tense under the knife but pliant everywhere else.

When the coat was disassembled, hanging in pieces from the untouched lapel, John gathered up the fabric at the nape of Jim’s neck and pulled down, twisting the wool in new configurations against his body. He worked the knife under the bundle of fabric and sawed through the threads. The blade was smooth, not serrated, and it was slow work, dragging little tremors out of Jim’s body. Jim's head bowed forward until his forehead pressed against the glass.

“John, _fuck,_ ” Jim whispered when the two halves of the coat finally fell back against his body, supported only by the shoulders and sleeves under his arms.

Grinning now, John dragged the point of the blade along the seam over Jim’s right shoulder, putting almost no pressure into the cut. It took two more shivering passes before threads started to part. The wool finally gapped enough that John could slice cleanly through the lining, tugging the lapel away from Jim’s neck. John could have let the fabric fall down Jim’s arm, but he wasn’t giving a bit of this to gravity unnecessarily. He cut through the lapel, twisting the knife at the last moment, pressing the blunt back edge against the scarf.

Jim hissed in a breath, flinching away, his whole body going tense.

 _He’s felt that before._ The thought hit John like a splash of cold water. He watched intently, wondering if Jim was going to safeword. But Jim exhaled slowly, flexing his shoulders, fingers pressing against the glass before he deliberately relaxed forward again.

Trust. It was the one thing he couldn’t demand and the one thing he needed.

He caught one tail of the scarf and pulled lightly, just enough to slide the silk over Jim’s skin, hopefully distracting him from the memory. He’d find out more some other time. For now, he had the rest of Jim’s clothes to work through.

 

~~~

 

It had to be at least thirty minutes before the knife cut through the waistband of his trousers, but time had lost all meaning for Jim. John was a fucking _artist_ with the knife, skimming the blade close enough to kiss Jim’s skin without ever making him feel like he was in danger of being cut. Not that he would have minded that — at least not while he was in _this_ mood.

For a bit there, he’d been disappointed that John had turned down Jim’s offer to dom this scene. They’d been playing at this long enough that Jim was starting to get twitchy, though every time John pushed him under, he was reminded why he enjoyed it so much. Living the life he did, he never really got to feel _safe_ except when he put himself entirely into John’s hands.

And it was driving Jim crazy that those hands still hadn’t actually _touched_ yet. John had been meticulous with every cut, touching only fabric, using the scarf to keep from brushing Jim’s flesh, filtering every contact through cotton or wool or silk. Even when he’d cut off each glove, the only sensations Jim had felt were the blunt back of the knife and the softly sueded chamois when John pulled it tight.

The last shreds of his trousers fell away. He felt ridiculously exposed, wearing just his pants, socks, and shoes. John had cut off _everything_ else, even the sock garters.

The scarf. He couldn’t forget that. It was still wrapped twice around his neck, the ends hanging free in the space between his back and the glass. There was no weight on it at all, but it still was hard to breathe just from the feather-light touch of silk. The knowledge that John could reach behind him at any time, grasp the ends, and _pull_.

He was angled against the window, feet forward just enough that he was off-balance, fighting gravity and his own body to keep upright. When he felt the thin, blunt edge of the knife press up into the top of his thigh, right over the femoral artery, a delicious mix of fear and arousal and adrenaline surged through him, almost buckling his knees. He was deep under enough that all of his self-defense training was a blur. He knew there was _some_ way out of this, but he couldn’t think — didn’t _want_ to think. And a part of him wanted John to turn that blade and cut, just a little, just enough to turn the fear into a stinging blossom of real pain.

When the point turned, piercing the thin silk of his pants and scraping over bare skin, Jim couldn’t suppress his gasp. It came out desperate and scared and needy, absolutely unlike _everything_ he outwardly worked to portray.

Fucking Christ, he was glad he’d instructed his agents to stop surveillance when he was with John. That first night, it had been Moran behind the scope. It had cost Moriarty a small fortune to keep him there all night, but he wasn’t about to sub for a stranger — even one whose dossier had been vetted — without backup.

Now, though... he trusted John. And if _that_ wasn’t the most fucked-up thing that had happened to him this year, he didn’t know what was.

“Was this what you wanted tonight?” John asked as the knife finally sliced through fabric. He still wasn’t touching except to pinch the fabric away from Jim’s leg and then release it, letting the tension over the edge do most of the work for him.

Jim opened his eyes, looking at John, still almost completely hidden behind body armor and black fabric — still carrying the goddamned M27. Loaded.

“Fuck. I hadn’t really thought of it,” he admitted, wondering exactly how far John was going to take this before he started shedding parts of the uniform Jim was most definitely glad he’d acquired. Worth every goddamned favor he’d traded, in fact.

John was working the knife up slowly, _not looking down at the blade_. Jim wanted to look, but didn’t, feeling his heart race as he considered just how much damage that blade could do. It had crossed from his leg to his hip, moving out (thankfully) and over very soft, vulnerable skin that John damn well knew was incredibly sensitive.

“Yes, you did.” Abruptly, he stepped closer, his booted foot hitting the inside of Jim’s shoe. Reflexively, Jim spread his legs even more before he felt the point of the knife and froze, biting back a curse. One corner of John’s mouth twitched up, barely enough to qualify as a change of expression much less a smile. “Tell me.”

He wouldn’t — not everything. There were too many layers, things John wouldn’t understand, things he wouldn’t accept. But he had enough truth to give John an answer that would feel _real_ to them both.

“You’re a soldier. You wanted it,” he said, catching his breath as the knife reached the waistband of his pants.

And stopped before it cut through, leaving the tattered cloth trapped on Jim’s body.

For the first time tonight, John switched the knife to his right hand and looked down, tugging the silk cloth tight against Jim’s skin. “And what you were wearing? What was that meant to be?”

 _A statement,_ Jim thought, keeping the words hidden. “I didn’t —” He stopped talking, stopped _breathing,_ when he felt the knifepoint pierce the silk, pressing just hard enough for him to feel skin straining to split apart.

“Tailcoat,” John said, angling the point, dragging it lightly over Jim’s thigh.

Individual threads parted. Jim’s skin was electrified; he could feel every millimeter of the weave as it stretched over the blade and then surrendered, breaking apart.

“Waistcoat. Braces.” The knife moved up slowly, the whole cut no more than an inch in length now, and Jim had to concentrate to remember to breathe. John spoke more softly: “The tie. The cufflinks. Everything buttoned and fastened and perfect, Jim, even where no one would see it but me.”

He wanted to say that was _his way_ — an essential part of who he had always been. He accounted for every detail. He foresaw every contingency. He did everything _precisely_ according to a plan that took into account every possible variable.

“How long did it take you to dress?”

Two inches now, maybe not even. Jim imagined he could feel the cooler air seep in through the cut, though he knew that was an illusion. “An hour. Maybe more,” he said, and it took concentration to speak above a whisper.

“What were you thinking?”

Jim got his eyes open, the confusion clearing away some of the fog. John’s eyes were very dark, fixed on Jim’s face again, not on the path the knife was taking. It was still in his right hand, not his strong hand, and the point kept brushing skin.

“Know what it was like for me?” John asked. He shifted his weight, stepping forward, between Jim’s legs. The angle turned the knife, tugging sharply on the fabric before it slithered free of the blade. Jim bit his lip, feeling the hard scratch of velcro like thorns on his bare chest, tiny hooks pressed into his skin by the hard plates of body armor beneath them.

“It was like coming home,” John whispered in his ear. He flattened his left hand against the glass above Jim’s shoulder, still refusing to actually _touch,_ and leaned closer. “It’s not _my_ uniform, but I could feel it, like putting my own skin back on. I don’t even feel it — the weight of the kit, the body armor straps, the rifle. It’s all a part of me.”

He’d guessed right. He wanted to smile, to laugh, to tell John that was his _intent_. But he couldn’t concentrate enough to breathe, much less to speak, and John cut off any hope of speech when the cold, flat side of the blade pressed against Jim’s waist, skin-to-steel, making him flinch so hard against John’s body that the velcro probably scored tiny red lines onto his torso.

“Was that what it was like for you, putting on all those layers, buttoned together and precise?” John asked, still in that low, _dangerous_ whisper. “Was that your armor?”

Fucking hell, he understood. Moran had told him John was sharp enough to trust with independent missions — had been, in Afghanistan, at any rate — and this was just proof. He started to nod and agree, but the blade swept over his skin like the sideways drag of a razor, not cutting but scraping. Reflexively he gasped, flinching away, remembering other close calls with other knives wielded not for this but with intent to harm, to cut and cause pain, to kill.

John’s voice slid into that memory, a seductive, steady thread that Jim could follow out of that darkness, to somewhere safer. “How did it feel as I cut you out of your armor, Jim?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What secrets does Jim Moriarty hide under his armor?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter posted with special thanks to Mitaya, who managed to type several complete sentences of feedback despite the cliffhanger at the end!

_Armor,_ Jim thought, staring over John’s shoulder, feeling trapped but unable to move. He hadn’t thought of it as armor. It was another mask, just as much as the T-shirt and jeans he wore to the café, the bespoke suits, the ratty street clothes — all masks that were his _weapons_.

But armor... armor was meant to protect. To conceal. To guard some vulnerability or weakness. A carapace over some soft spot of flesh and blood that could, without _armor,_ be torn out and exposed.

And now that he was thinking it, he couldn’t get it out of his head — not with the body armor scratching roughly against his skin and his waist still tingling from the scrape of the knife edge. He closed his eyes, trying to find his balance, but it was too disorienting leaning back like this, conscious of the light pressure of the scarf that couldn’t stop his breathing but still felt tight.

“Jim. Hands on my shoulders.”

It took effort to let go of the glass. He dug his fingers into the straps of the armor over John’s shoulders, wanting — _needing_ — him to be out of it, to be just as naked as Jim, but John barked, “Stop!”

Growling in frustration, he stopped digging at the straps and clung to John as he felt himself slowly falling. He pushed away from the glass, staggered, and caught himself against John’s body, allowing John to guide him down to his knees..

“Steady,” John said calmly. “Breathe.”

Jim couldn’t feel the knife against his side anymore. John’s hand pressed against his back, but —

“Damn you, _touch me!_ ” Jim snapped, realizing John’s hand had trapped the silk against Jim’s back. He caught at John’s face, scratching his fingertips against stubble-rough skin, flattening his palms against John’s throat.

“Stop.”

“John, you’re fucking _killing me,_ ” Jim snapped, trying to get hold of John’s short-cropped hair, to pull him close for a kiss.

But John wasn’t moving, no matter how desperately Jim touched him or kissed or nipped, even when he bit sharply enough to draw a spot of blood from his lip. He just stayed balanced in a comfortable crouch in front of Jim, staring at Jim with the intense fascination of a predator watching his prey.

Only when Jim leaned back against the window, fighting to catch his breath, did John wipe the back of his right hand across his lip. He still held the knife, and the sight of it made Jim’s heart skip.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” John said in a voice of quiet menace.

“I’m sorry.” The words came out in a rough whisper before Jim could think to say anything else — to demand that John stop toying with him. The anger he’d felt had burned hot and fast, leaving behind a raw, aching need that left him unable to keep fighting.

“Let me give you what you need.”

 _Yes,_ Jim thought, closing his eyes and nodding.

More gently now, John said, “Sit down. I want you completely naked.”

Jim shifted ungracefully, getting his legs out from under himself. He rested his hands flat on the floor and felt John remove one shoe and then the other. It crossed his mind that John would surely _need_ to touch skin to get his socks off, but only in a distant sort of way. The cold floor and glass felt good against his body. Sitting — not having to work to stay balanced — allowed him to relax and just let John do whatever he wanted.

A sharp touch on his left shin made him flinch. “Easy,” John said, working the point of the knife under the black silk sock. Jim groaned but made no effort to fight. John would touch him when _he_ was ready, not before.

 

~~~

 

As John cut off the other sock, he watched Jim carefully. His doctor’s eye kept note of his breathing and the color of his skin. Standing for so long in such a stressful position might have been too much.

“Jim,” he said steadily as he sheathed the knife, snapping the strap over the guard to keep it in place against his armor.

Though Jim stayed silent, he was responsive, opening his eyes and meeting John’s gaze steadily. His pupils were dilated, but that was no surprise. There was no sign of disorientation, even though John knew that he was riding a tide of chemicals and hormones that had him disconnected from everything except the tension building between them.

God, when was the last time he’d done _this_ without using pain? Endorphins could create a similar high, but this was better. This way, Jim wasn’t desensitized to gentler touches.

John reached out took hold of both ends of the scarf, gently unwrapping it. Jim’s whole body shuddered as John dragged the tasseled ends over his skin. The flush of arousal returned to Jim’s skin and he arched his back as though trying to chase the light brush of silk.

“Jim,” he said again, picking up both ends of the scarf in one hand. He gave a little tug against the back of Jim’s neck until Jim’s eyes opened and met his. “I want you to crawl for me, Jim. Go to the center of the rug. Crawl there and lie down on your back, parallel to the sofa. Do you understand?”

Without being prompted, Jim said, “Yes, sir,” for the first time tonight.

“Go,” John said, just sharply enough to get him moving.

Jim twisted, flattening his palms on the floor for balance as he got his knees under himself, his movements uncoordinated. He closed his eyes as though pushing up to all fours required concentration. John rose from his crouch, feeling his right knee protest violently at having been sharply bent for so long. He braced a hand on the window and watched. At first, he was concerned that Jim couldn’t make it. But as Jim’s movements became more coordinated, John simply allowed himself to enjoy the sight of Jim like this, his composure thoroughly shattered.

Jim was so lost in his own head that he didn’t react when John took the rifle from his back and dropped the magazine out into his hand. Warily, John tested his right knee, making certain it would hold his weight, and then walked to the armchair. He worked the bolt to eject the loaded round and then put everything on the armchair.

He stopped beside Jim and took the bottle of lubricant out of his left thigh pocket. He crouched, keeping his weight on his left leg, and nudged the bottle against Jim’s hand. Jim’s fingers automatically curled around it.

“I want to watch you,” John said, arranging the tails of the scarf, careful not to touch Jim’s bare skin with his hands — only with the silk. He draped one end of the scarf around Jim’s throat and brought the other end over the first, leaving it to trail over his chest.

Shivering, Jim swallowed and nodded, watching John with absolute patience and trust, despite the arousal that John knew was burning through his blood like liquid fire.

John leaned down a little more and said, “Prepare your body for me, Jim. Tell me you’ll do this for me — that you’ll let me watch you touch yourself.”

Jim’s cheeks went dark as his eyes widened. “Yes,” he whispered hoarsely.

 _Good enough,_ John thought. He ran his fingers gently down the silk, letting Jim feel the pressure of his touch. Then he circled carefully around Jim and sat down on the sofa. Jim’s eyes watched him the whole time, fixed and intent, though he frowned when John sat down. His hand shifted over the rug, reaching towards John.

Carefully, John nudged Jim’s hand with one booted foot. “I’m right here,” he said reassuringly. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, to better allow Jim to see him paying attention. “Now start, Jim. Touch yourself.”

 

~~~

 

Of all the things Jim had ever done, this was perhaps the most _terrifying,_ being so exposed, so vulnerable. He couldn’t fight — he _didn’t want to_ — but touching himself like this, with John sitting over him, watching... Just thinking about it made him so dizzy that he couldn’t breathe.

He could get out of this. He could wipe the fog from his mind and give John his safeword. He knew that John would respect the safeword and that it wouldn’t end what they had — it might not even end tonight. But all these considerations passing sluggishly through his thoughts _stopped_ when John spoke:

“Jim. _Now._ ”

His hands were moving without conscious direction. After being denied touch for so long, even the feel of his own hand, splayed flat on his chest, made him quietly groan.

“Good, Jim.” John’s soft-spoken encouragement was like bright sunlight on fog, dissolving the fleeting hesitation that had gripped him.

He didn’t know _why_ he was doing this, except that at that precise moment, there was nothing more he wanted. He was completely in his body, his racing thoughts quiet, his nerves alive. He was safe and had John’s complete attention — he _owned_ John’s thoughts just as completely as John owned his, and though at any other time, the very thought would be intolerable, right then, it made everything in the world _perfect_.

So he touched, sinking deeper into each sensation, allowing John’s strong voice to guide him, directing where and how he touched. At John’s direction, he poured lubricant into his hand, not caring that he spilled it everywhere. It was embarrassing to lay naked at John’s feet and spread his own legs and touch himself while John watched. It was awkward and ungraceful, reaching down to push his fingers into his own body.

But John’s praise stripped away every hint of shame. Encouraged, he twisted up to one elbow and curved his spine to better reach, spreading his legs more, hiding nothing, working two fingers inside as he relaxed. Heat spread through his body, a languid, heavy sense of desire that left him gasping for breath.

A sharp tearing sound made him look back to see John ripping open the velcro strips holding his body armor in place. “Don’t stop,” he ordered, and Jim bit his lip, reaching further so he could work a third finger inside. It burned beautifully, matching the fire filling his body, though it wasn’t _enough_.

The body armor hit the carpet with a dull thump. An endless minute later, John said, “Stop. Kneel up on the sofa, hands on the back.”

Jim wanted to curse, wanted to rail at John for not giving him what he _needed,_ but he didn’t. When he withdrew his fingers, it left a feeling of cold, desperate emptiness behind. A little moan of protest escaped as he turned toward the sofa, pushing up on all fours.

When he saw black instead of white, he was momentarily confused, until he realized that John had stripped off his shirts. The uniform shirt was spread across the seat cushion, his T-shirt draped over the back.

Jim crawled up onto the sofa, closing his eyes as the scent of John’s body surrounded him. Shuddering, he folded his arms under the T-shirt and rubbed his face against it, inhaling deeply.

The sudden touch of rough fabric against Jim’s flanks made him flinch in surprise. John leaned down and a small, warm weight hit the middle of Jim’s back: the silver dog tags Jim had given to John earlier that evening.

Quietly, John commanded, “Tell me your safeword, Jim.”

He licked his lips, stuttering for a moment when he felt John cross the ends of the silk scarf in front of his throat “P-Pascal.

“Again.”

“Pascal.”

“Good,” John said, leaning back slowly, dragging the dog tags down Jim’s spine “And your signal?”

It took Jim a moment to remember. He freed one hand of the T-shirt fabric and snapped his fingers.

“Very good,” John said, his voice full of approval that warmed Jim throughout his whole body. “Spread your legs a bit more for me. Good,” he encouraged.

Jim moaned into the T-shirt as John fitted his body between Jim’s calves, hanging over the edge of the sofa. He was still wearing the uniform trousers. The contents of the thigh pockets were hard against the backs of Jim’s thighs.

Unable to keep from shivering, he waited, desperate for the first, hard push to penetrate his body.

He never expected John to gather the ends of the scarf in his hand and _pull_.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything has consequences, whether the consequences are a shredded tux once worth thousands of pounds or a pair of silver dog tags. One will be forgotten; the other, never.

This was dangerous. The potential to inflict damage was all too real, and they both knew it. John twisted the scarf around his fist and carefully pressed his silk-wound knuckles against the back of Jim’s neck to hold him steady. “Don’t move,” he said as he slowly fought Jim’s body to push inside. Jim was tight, tight enough that John worried that he hadn’t given Jim enough time to prepare.

Then, with a raspy, strained inhale, Jim pushed back, bearing down, and John felt the muscles relax just enough. Sparks flared before John’s eyes as he closed them tightly, willing his body to adjust to the near-overwhelming pleasure, even through the condom he wore. After all this, he wasn’t going to finish in under a minute. They both deserved more than that.

Jim was making desperate, breathy sounds, fighting to push his hips back. John reached out with his free hand, running a finger over the edge of the scarf draped over Jim’s back.

“Easy,” he said, filling his voice with a calm he didn’t feel. He relaxed his left fist, allowing some of the tension on the scarf to ease. “I’ve got you, Jim. I’ll take care of you.”

Slowly, Jim’s breathing steadied. He dropped his head against his fists, clenched in the shirt draped over the back of the couch. “John —”

“No talking,” John said. He rubbed little circles against Jim’s back, the motion made rough by the sweat dampening the silk scarf under his fingers. “Just feel me, Jim.”

Jim’s next breath came through clenched teeth as John pushed deeper, until the rough fabric of his trousers pressed against Jim’s thighs. Still only touching Jim through the scarf, John held him gently in place, feeling the tremors as Jim’s body slowly relaxed.

John eased his grip on the scarf a little more. “Deep breaths,” he said, and watched as the muscles in Jim’s back flexed over his ribs. Carefully, John drew back, saying, “Keep breathing, Jim. Steady, deep breaths,” when Jim’s inhale hitched and stuttered.

Slowly, Jim relaxed under John’s quiet guidance. His breaths still came quickly, but the line of his back eased as he settled against his forearms. John watched as Jim relaxed again, settling deeper into his role. John’s last traces of anxiety began to fade; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this uneasy during a scene, especially not one with a partner who was so familiar.

“Kneel up, Jim,” John said, sharply enough to get Jim moving before he could think about what he was doing. Jim was off-balance and clumsy, but John was ready for that. Planting his feet to brace himself, John got his right arm around Jim’s chest, saying, “I’ve got you. Lean back.”

Trembling with the effort to find his balance, Jim started to speak, but John cut him off. “Shh. Don’t say anything. Remember?” When Jim nodded, John said, “Touch yourself, Jim. Make yourself come for me.”

Jim hissed in a breath, twisting just a bit, as if to look back at John. “Don’t,” John warned, splaying his hand against Jim’s chest to keep him still. “Do as I say, or this ends.”

John could read Jim’s hesitation in the tension that returned to his shoulders, but he let that pass as Jim slowly reached down. A moment later, Jim let out a ragged groan, hips thrusting forward. John dropped his hand to Jim’s hip, pulling him back again.

He couldn’t see — not without breaking the precarious balance they’d established and losing the connection between their bodies — but he could feel slow, tentative motion of Jim’s hand.

“Faster, Jim,” he snapped. “I know what you like.”

As soon as Jim started to move, John twisted the scarf around his left hand, pulling it tight once more. Jim gasped, faltering. His exhale was strained as John pulled tighter on the silk wound around his throat.

“Don’t stop,” John whispered, twisting the silk again, putting his fist up against the back of Jim’s neck.

Jim’s breath came in short, hissing pants. John closed his eyes, listening intently, moving his other hand back up to Jim’s chest. His heartbeat was racing, chest straining with the effort to inhale steadily. Like this, it was too dangerous to completely close off Jim’s ability to breathe, but John knew how hard it would be even with this slight obstruction. Jim’s world would be reduced completely to their bodies, his own hand, the feeling of strangulation, suffocation, the blood surging in his ears. Dizzy, his only stability would be the unsteady sofa cushion under his knees and John. Jim wouldn’t be able to concentrate for more than a few seconds that would stretch out like a lifetime.

He was still moving, though, so John quietly praised him. “Good, Jim. Don’t stop,” he whispered, barely audible over the sound of Jim’s struggle to breathe. He waited, patient, and when Jim finally exhaled, John abruptly let the scarf go loose.

Jim’s next inhale was a gasp that hit him without warning. If not for how John was holding him, Jim would have fallen under the rush of oxygen. Quickly, John caught the scarf and twisted it as hard as he dared, cutting off the gasp with a faint, desperate sound.

The silk compressing the carotid arteries produced a sensation of lightheadedness, disorientation, and sexual arousal. The sensation of strangulation set off the fight-or-flight response — the body's instinctive response to danger — triggering the brain’s production of adrenaline, which mildly inhibited the body’s ability to sustain an erection. The conflicting hormones served to increase Jim’s disorientation, leaving him entirely dependent on John.

John didn’t move, save to control every breath Jim took. The pulse of Jim’s body had him desperate to move, to _take_ Jim, but that wasn’t the goal for tonight. This was about controlling Jim on the most intimate level possible, getting deep into his mind and body, giving Jim only what John wished: pleasure, freedom, _air_.

He allowed Jim closer to that edge in small increments, always careful to be cautious, not reckless. John encouraged Jim with soft, whispered commands, almost withdrawing from Jim’s body completely so he could pull Jim back against his chest, trapping the dog tags between them.

Jim’s right hand clawed at John’s leg, catching on the ammo magazine still in his pocket. Jim never stopped moving his left hand — faster now, a rhythm that John had learned meant he was close. John twisted the scarf more tightly, bracing himself against the sofa as he started to count the seconds.

After only fifteen seconds, the rhythm of Jim’s hand started to falter. Jim’s heart was racing wildly, chest spasming in an effort to inhale. Before twenty-five, every muscle in Jim’s body had gone tense.

When he reached thirty, John released the scarf, held Jim tight, and thrust into him as deeply as the angle of their bodies would allow.

Jim gasped, his back arching, hand going still as the abrupt high washed through him, pushing him hard over the edge. John clenched his teeth, feeling the muscles spasm around him as Jim’s gasp turned into a long, shaky moan, and it took all of his self-control not to push Jim forwards and drive into him again and again. But he held Jim close, supporting his weight as his body went languid with the last aftershocks of his orgasm.

When John withdrew, he couldn’t silence his involuntary groan of protest, but Jim was too far gone to care. As gently as possible, fighting the strain of his right knee, John eased Jim onto the sofa, unwinding the scarf from his throat. Both shirts were soiled, but John pulled the button-down over to cover Jim’s body before he leaned down to press a kiss to Jim’s temple.

“Stay right here, Jim,” he instructed softly. “Don’t move.”

Deep in his euphoria, Jim didn’t respond. Cursing himself for not having prepared for this, John pulled off the condom, willing his erection to subside, and buttoned his trousers. He rushed up the stairs as quickly as his strained knee would permit.

A few minutes later, he was back downstairs, carrying Jim’s favorite robe, the duvet from his bed, and a damp towel. Jim barely moved when John cleaned him and helped him into the robe before wrapping him in the duvet. John tossed the shirts and towel in the direction of the laundry closet beneath the stairs. He got rid of his boots and finally remembered to get the ammo magazine out of his thigh pocket.

Then John got under the blanket, pulling Jim close. Jim roused enough to murmur John’s name, curling up against his chest.

“Rest. I’ve got you,” John promised, staring out the window as he tightened his right arm around Jim’s shoulders. With his left, he drew the dog tags out from under the blanket, studying them.

WATSON JH

They were beautifully made, heavy silver, the chain sturdy and gleaming. At any other time in his life, John would have seen them as a way of encouraging him to take the relationship further. To him, they were a more intimate gift than more traditional jewelry.

Except.

His hand tightened around the dog tags and he drew in a breath, turning his gaze back to the window again.

He had never told Jim his middle name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very special thanks to all those who've given encouragement, feedback, and last-minute beta reads, including my secret beta. You know who you are!


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